Dreams of 18(19)

There’s a garage on the far right with an old-fashioned barn door, which is padlocked closed. It must hold the truck he used to drive, all black and big and so different from the BMWs of our neighborhood.

The truck I so wanted to ride in but never got the chance.

According to Brian, Mr. Edwards was possessive of his truck. He wouldn’t even let Brian drive it. It used to frustrate my best friend to no end.

But I used to find it cute – Mr. Edwards’s possessiveness – among other things. Other less appropriate things that I don’t want to think about.

The only thing I should be thinking about is apologizing. That’s why I’m here.

To apologize. To make up for what I did.

How am I going to do that? I’m still as clueless as I was when the girls asked me about it.

But I have to start somewhere, right? I have to take the first step and go knock on his front door.

God, front doors freak me out.

But it’s fine.

I’m fine.

I skip on the spot as if getting ready to go into the boxing ring or something, instead of knocking on a door.

But suddenly, I realize that I might not get an answer, even if I did knock.

Because no one seems to be home. The house sits in darkness.

I take a few steps toward the house, and through the big dust-stained window on the porch, I see the silhouettes of furniture. Maybe a couch and a coffee table. Even a lamp.

But there are no lights on and the sky’s getting darker by the second.

I bite my lip and stand there, trying to think about what to do next. Before I know it, my legs are moving forward.

I go around the cabin and look through other windows to confirm my suspicion. No signs of any light or movements. There’s no sound except for my own choppy breathing and a slight rustle of the breeze.

He’s not home.

I’m relieved.

I’m also disappointed. As afraid as I am to face him, I don’t like it that he isn’t here.

For a few moments, I thought he was close. He was right here. A knock – as impossible as it is for me to make it – and he’d open the door and I’d look at him after ten long months.

Now I don’t know what to do. Where to find him. When I’ll get to see him.

If I’ll get to see him.

Maybe I should go and regroup, come up with a different plan. And I’m all set to do that but I stop.

Because my gaze falls on something.

Something that makes my heart squeeze in my chest. So much so that I feel like someone is strangling it, suffocating it to the point where I can’t breathe.

It takes all my strength, but I move. I get my legs working, and then I’m running toward it.

His garden.

His rose garden.

I almost scrape my bare knees dropping to the ground. I snatch my glasses off and stare at the dead flowers.

The shrubs are bare and thorny, with hardly any leaves hanging on. The red and pink petals are scattered on the ground, warped into themselves.

As soon as I touch a curled-up bloom still attached to the stem, it crumples.

“Oh, poor babies,” I whimper.

No one has been taking care of them.

He is not taking care of them. They are forgotten and neglected, thrust into a little corner in his backyard.

Just like this house and him.

Mr. Edwards has always been so meticulous about his roses. So careful and religious about looking after them.

Once Brian told me that Mr. Edwards drove two counties over to get the right brand of peat moss for them because the one they had at our local store wouldn’t let the moisture seep through the way that he wanted.

God.

My heart is breaking in a million ways right now and I have to find him.

Not tomorrow. Not an hour later. But right now.

I have to find him right this second.

I have to see him with my own eyes. I have to look at him, ask him about his roses. I have to ask him so many things. I have to say so many things to him.

The next thing I know I’m in my car and I’m driving away. I’m flooring it.

I’ve never driven this fast in my life. Not even on the night I was running away. I go back to the town that I’d only passed through on my drive in.

I literally have no idea what I’m going to do once I get there. But I can’t not do anything. Not after what I’ve seen.

Oh God, the roses.

I’m aware that I’m losing my mind over a bunch of plants. But they’re not just plants. They are… his plants.

I still have the petals from all the dying roses I stole from him over those two years. I kept them safe between the pages of my journals. The old ones, the ones with my dreams: The Diary of a Shrinking Violet.

Forty-five minutes later, I reach the main part of the town. It’s kind of a tiny place with a few stores, office buildings and restaurants probably covering about four to five blocks in total. I find a parking spot on one of the streets and jump out of the car with my large hobo bag – that I literally can’t go anywhere without – and my disguise on.

I don’t even know if he’s here. Maybe he’s out of town. Maybe he’ll come back next week.

But I can ask.

Yes, I’m aware that talking to strangers isn’t my forte anymore but it’s going to be okay. I’ll do anything to find Mr. Edwards.

I will.